The Waste Land
by rheaverandom
Summary: Lessons tought, lessons learned. Warning: Arthurian legends, human angels and musings about life ahead.
1. Prologue

T H E W A S T E L A N D

**Disclaimer**: not mine.

**Warning**: AU, for my very personal take on Andrew's background.

CHAPTER ONE: Who art thou?

Part one.

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Angels, they say, are often uncertain

wheter they move among the living or the dead. The eternal torrent

flows through both worlds, whirling all ages along with it,

and drowning their voices with its song.

(Rilke, The First Elegy)

-----------------------

"So, what's our next case?"

Monica was as radiant as the new morning, smiling up at Tess from behind her extensive breakfast. They were travelling down the coast, living life day by day while waiting for directions, and so, being in no hurry, they had decided to stay at this cheap, but friendly little motel for the night. It was a nice way to travel: a red convertible, good company and every time of the world. But they knew that the peace woudn't last, and Monica became soon itchy to meet her new assignement.

Tess sighed; the impatience of youth. But confronted with a smile like that, it was hard to summon a grumpy reply, even if she wasn't exactly a morning person. She was a blues singer, after all.

"Patience is a virtue, Miss Wings", she replied, taking a seat. Halfheartedly, she sniffed at the coffee. At least ist smelled strong enough. They'd certainly need it these coming days.

"Speaking of which, how come I'm missing a certain angelic face at this table? Didn't Andrew use to be every bit an early bird as you?"

Monica didn't look up from the toast she was buttering. "Probably just sleeping in. He's had a rough time these past few days. I haven't heard anything from his room since he went to bed early yesterday evening."

Tess smiled fondly at the memory of an Andrew in complete and utter awe at the wonder of childbirth happening in his ambulance. Their last assignement had been a burnt-out paramedic,a nd Andrew had volunteered to go on a string of night shifts with him. At first, the idea had seemed strange: the Angel of Death battling drugs and violence in the streets of downtown Chicago, but Andrew had managed not only to get his charge through a rough few days without loosing one single patient, they'd even assisted in bringing a child to this world.

"You're thinking about that last assignment." Monica was watching her across the table, smiling at her own memories. "You know, that's exactly what I love about this job – that we're able to give a little hope to people. Oh Tess, why can't you just tell me who my new assignement is? Is it here, ibn this town?"

Tess sighed, her heart suddenly heavy. Sometimes, she wished she could change the things that were about to happen.

"It's near, Miss Wings", she said soflty, "it's near."

Monica didn't pay attention, though. Distracted by a tall figure approaching the table, she was looking up. Welcoming Andrew with a radiant smile, she pushed the apricot jam – his favourit – in the general direction of his plate. He reciprocated her friendly good-morning, but Tess didn't miss the fact that he avoided eye-contact with both of them as he sat down.

"I was just grilling Tess about our next case", Monica began her usual chatter while providing him woth assorted pieces of breakfast. "As always, she knows something, but won't tell. But, you know, I have a feeling that it won't be long now… Did you sleep well?"

"Alright." Andrew continued to stare down at the bread on his plate.

"I was wondering – is there one of these funny things in your bathroom, too? Tess says it'S kind of a European thing, but wouldn't tell me what it is good for… Anyway, did you notice? It's finally stopped raining, maybe we can drive with open top, today. Wouldn't that be great?"

"Sure."

Surprised, Monica looked up, finally noticing his uncharacteristically shorthanded answers. Andrew just sat there, head bowed, pushing his breakfast around in his plate. He'd not eaten a bit, yet.

"Are you alright, Andrew?" Monica asked, concern in her voice.

Short pause.

"I'm okay."

"Well, I don't think so, Angelboy." Tess' firm voice startled both of them. Determined, she reached out, taking Andrew's chin and lifting his face. And her heart ached at what she saw.

Andrew's face was covered in sweat, the dark rings around his too bright eyes in stark contrast to his pale skin. He looked tired and sick and really, really embarassed.

"Oh, baby."

"It's not as bad as it looks, Tess." Andrew was nearly pleading. "Just a little cold. I'm…"

"We both know that it's more than a little cold, Angelboy. And I won't even start arguing with you – you're going straight back to bed."

"Tess, please…"

Surprisingly gentle given her harsh tone, Tess laid a hand on his forehead. "You're running a fever. Have you got your medicines?"

Andrew sighed resignedly. "Yeah. Took some Tylenol, but it didn't really help."

"When did it start?"

Silence.

"Couple of days ago."

"Okay." Tess stood suddenly, urging a startled Andrew to his feet. "This is the plan. Monica and I are going to talk to the manager about prolonging our reservation, and when we get back to your room, we find you all nicely set up in bed. Deal?"

Andrew smiled wearily. "Deal. Just promise not to drag me to a hospital, this time."

"Then be good, Angelboy. Be good."

tbc

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_Reviews will be rewarded with new chapters. Beta offerings are gladly accepted. _

-------------------


	2. Who art thou? part one

T H E W A S T E L A N D

**Disclaimer**: not mine.

**Warning**: AU, for my very personal take on Andrew's background.

CHAPTER ONE: Who art thou?

Part two.

-------------------

… _for lauren05 who reviewed._

-------------------

Monica waited anxiously for Tess to come back from the front desk, where she was chatting for what seemed to be an undue time, considering their friend's state. The memory still gave her the creeps; something was terribly wrong here, and she couldn't begin to fathom what it was.

Finally, Tess came over, dropping assorted pieces of paper into her handbag. In her hand, she held a yellow post-it-note with something scribbled on it.

"Alright, Miss Wings, that's two rooms for another week. Let's go packing; you're moving in with Andrew, I'll take your room."

She started for the elevator, but Monica refused to follow.

"Don't you think it's time you tell me what this is all about?"

Tess looked back at her, utterly surprised. "Well, I thought we could cut back on our budget a little. I don't like leaving Andrew alone as sick as he is, anyway, and I thought it wouldn't be a problem if you babies shared. But if you prefer…"

"Not that, Tess. What's happening to Andrew?" They were angels, after all, and even if they used human forms to connect easier with mortals, none of them had ever been seriously ill. It was unconceivable. "Tess, we heal so fast…"

"I'm afraid Andrew doesn't, Angelgirl."

"But I don't understand. He's an angel – why did God give him a flawed human body?"

Tess smiled at the petulant question. Sometimes she forgot how very young Monica was. "Oh, baby, mortal bodies *are* flawed. That's what makes them human. But asking for reasons won't help Andrew right now. Come on, let's go doing the only sensible thing one can do in such a situation."

Monica looked at her diffidently. "And that would be?"

Tess waved the post-it-note at her. "Brewing a whole lot of chamomile tee."

The fact that Andrew had done as he'd been ordered and gone straight to bed blied the brave smile he tried to muster, as Tess entered the room. He'd not even gotten rid of his clothes. Wordlessly, she went for the bathroom, filled a glass with water and rummaged briefly in his shaving kit.

"Have you told Monica?" Andrew asked, as she came back, frowning at the pills she held out.

"Pain killer. Your magical actor charm isn't working on me." She handed him the glass and watched him grimace as he swallowed. "And no, I didn't tell Monica. Yet."

"Promise me you'll keep her out of this." Handing back the glass, he looked at her with those otherworldly green eyes and her heart ached at the self-loathing she recognized in them. "She's so pure and full of joy; don't let her worry for things that can't be changed."

"Oh, Angelboy." Sighing, she sat down on the bed, reaching out to brush a damp strand of light brown hair out of his eyes. "How bad is it?"

There was a long pause.

"I don't know", Andrew finally replied. "I felt a little tired a few days ago, stuffy nose, sore throat, minor things. But the last assignment got me pretty hooked and I really didn't pay attention until it got… bad."

Another pause.

"Tess, I'm frightened."

"Don't be, baby. It will be alright." She reached out again, brushing his cheek with her fingertips, her heart filling with regret at the confident way he leaned into her touch. "It will be, eventually."

tbc

-------------------

_Reviews will be rewarded with new chapters. Beta offerings are gladly accepted. _

-------------------


	3. Who art thou? part two

T H E W A S T E L A N D

**Disclaimer**: not mine.

**Warning**: AU, for my very personal take on Andrew's background.

-------------------

CHAPTER ONE: Who art thou?

Part three.

-------------------

… _for Kerrin, __who joined. _

-------------------

As silently as possible with an arm full of assorted items, Monica closed the door to Andrew's room behind her. It was late afternoon, still sunny outside, but inside, the drawn curtains bathed the room in a strange, subdued light, casting long shadows. Tess, who had been sitting beside the bed, watching over a sleeping Andrew, put down her book to meet her halfway through the room.

"I have got everything you wanted", Monica whispered, "and I brought us some sandwiches too. How is he?"

"His fever is rising, and he's got a bad cough, but at least I got him to drink some water." Tess shrugged. "He's out cold and will be for the next hours. I'll wake him later to get some more fluids into him, but for now, he's okay. It is time to show you something very important."

She put her arm around Monica's shoulders, gently nudging her out of the room…

-------------------

…and all of a sudden, the world around them changed, soft lights being replaced by bright halogen lamps, the quiet little motel morphing into a huge hospital corridor buzzing with life.

Monica looked around, startled. From the way people ignored her, she gathered that they had to be in their invisible angel personae. "Where are we?"

Tess smiled, pointing at a nearby door sporting the letters "maternity".

"Wrong question, Miss Wings, it's *when* are we. And as to the *why* of our being here: it is time to meet your new challenge."

The window in the broad door opened on a delivery room. A woman was lying on the low bed, looking exhausted and in pain. A light-haired man sustained her, whispering endearments into her ear. The next contraction hit, and the woman convulsed, crying out. Another cry, and the midwife held up a newborn child, blueishly tinged and covered in grime and blood. Its little hands were balled into fists of rage as he was crying out his frustration at this brutal world.

The man laughed with joy, pressing his head against his wife's forehead and kissing her wet hair. As the midwife laid the newborn boy – for it was a boy – now dry and wrapped in a blanked, on her breast, she, too, smiled in bliss.

Then the baby opened his eyes. They were the colour of the ocean in a winter storm, and all the wisdom of the world lay in them. And Monica held her breath, because the baby shone with joy and life, and something deep in her soul recognized it.

"This is the birth of an angel." She whispered, awed at what she saw.

And Tess laid her head back and laughed, and the laugh came straight from her heart. "Oh, baby, an angel is born in every single child that comes to this world. But watch."

Monica looked again, and all of a sudden, there was a little boy standing beside the bed, a child, maybe five years old, marvelling at the tiny creature on his mother's chest.

"That's Simon. His world has just utterly changed. He has become a big brother, and right now, he's not quite sure what to think about it. But he can feel that his parents are happy, and so he's happy, too. The baby is their second son, and they won't have any other children. They aren't practising Christians, and neither of them has ever read the Book, but Hebrew names have a long tradition in both their families, and a funny coincidence has willed it that their sons will be bearing the names of another, ancient pair of brothers. Come on, Miss Wings, meet Andy."

The stood near the bed, now, and Monica looked down on the newborn boy, utterly surprised. "But he is just a baby. What need can he possibly have for an angel?"

"Everyone needs angels, Miss Wings."

-------------------

Monica turned to meet Tess' eyes, and found herself standing in an open field framed with tall trees that blocked out the noises and sights of a distant city, a little oasis in a sea of houses.

"Look again."

Monica turned and saw two boys at play. The older one held the string of a rainbow-coloured kite. The younger boy, merely a toddler, ran behind him, face turned upwards to the sky, arms reaching out confidetly as if he owned the world.

"Simon and Andy, aged seven and three. Sure, there are a lot of times when they don't get along all that well, but Simon has long ago decided he likes his new brother, and Andy loves him back uncompromisingly. They have moved to another town, but that has made their bond only stronger."

Monica smiled, warmth filling her heart. On the lane, the kite went down, and with it Andy, a tangled heap of baby arms and feet and flying blond hair. Eventually, he came up on his knees again, laughing delightedly as Simon, darker and leaner than his brother, flopped down on him, engaging him in a friendly wrestling match.

"I could watch them for hours." Monica said, happily.

"Look closer, Miss Wings."

Tess' tone of voice had suddenly changed. Looking in the direction she was pointing out, Monica saw a man sitting on one of the swings, and her heart sunk as she recognized Adam, the Angel of Death, watching the boy's play with a benevolent smile.

"Who's he here for?"

"Right now? For none of them. But he will be back, Miss Wings. He'll be back."

tbc

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_Reviews will be rewarded with new chapters. Beta__s welcome. _

-------------------


	4. Voices, Voices and Echoes part one

T H E W A S T E L A N D

**Disclaimer**: not mine.

**Warning**: AU, for my very personal take on Andrew's background.

-------------------

CHAPTER Two: Voices, Voices and Echoes

Part one.

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_Who, if I cried, would hear me of the angelic orders?_

_Or even supposing one should suddenly carry me to his heart_

_I should perish under the pressure of his stronger nature. _

_(The First Elegy)_

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That night, Monica slept restlessly. The little boy was haunting her dreams, his bright laugh, the startling green eyes; but in her dream, she never caught more than a glimpse of him, a flash of blond baby hair, light footsteps on grass. He seemed so full of life, so unperturbed by the worries of the world, and yet, as Monica woke, here cheeks were wet with tears.

For a moment, she just lay there, closing her eyes once again, but the feeling of unease wouldn't leave her stomach.

Sighing, she turned, checking on Andrew. His cough was getting worse, and for the first half of the night, he had been tossing and turning, hallucinating with fever. But now he lay still, the light blanket tangled around his hips. Monica didn't understand what was happening; he had been uncharacteristically silent after she had moved in with him, refusing to take more than a little water from her. He'd not been downright unfriendly, but she knew that his sleep this afternoon had been mostly feigned.

Now, he was deeply asleep, though, finally unable to reject the embrace Monica ached for. Gently as not to wake him, she reached out for him. The shirt he was wearing was damp, and the skin underneath felt all too warm to her touch, but his solid presence expelled the ghosts ,and she slept dreamlessly for the rest of the night.

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The next day presented itself clammy and cold, but the air was fresh and clean, and although she felt a little guilty about leaving her fellow angels behind, Monica enjoyed her morning walk. She had woken to the sight of Tess towering above her like an avenging angel, one eyebrow raised in mock outrage. But Tess being Tess, she hadn't managed to hold up the charade very long, and had soon broken into a bright smile over finding her clinging to a still oblivious Andrew. She'd ushered her out, insisting that it was her turn to pamper him now, and, reluctantly, Monica had obeyed.

Coming back to the motel, Monica found Tess at the breakfast table, completely absorbed by a huge mug of steaming coffee.

"How is he?" She asked, taking a seat.

"Unandrewishly grumpy and still declining food. Says he just wants to sleep, and could we pretty please leave him alone?"

She leaned closer to Monica, taking her hands into hers. "Have you had breakfast, yet?"

Monica nodded.

"Good. 'Cause there's somebody waiting for us."

-------------------

Tess watched Monica secretly, while they were standing at the glass door to the children's ward's isolation room, looking at the two boys behind it. The older one was sitting up in the single bed, wearing a hospital gown and sporting a bald head from chemotherapy and radiation. He looked deadly pale, but his eyes were gleaming as he talked intently to his younger brother, who was sitting cross-legged at the foot end of the bed. They had a stack of UNO cards between them, but the game they were playing had nothing to do with UNO.

"He's trying to teach him poker, but Andy seems a little hopeless at bluffing." Tess explained. "As he will remain for the rest of his life, if you allow me a personal remark."

Monica's face was filled with compassion. "What's wrong with him?"

"Brain tumor. Glioblastoma, I think it's called. Shortly after his tenth birthday, Simon started to get a little clumsy. Nothing really big, just a twist now and then, a broken plate at dishwashing. Then the convulsions started, and Simon's parents finally realized that there was something very wrong with their firstborn. At the time it was diagnosed, the tumor was already inoperable. The oncologists tried a row of things, but it was only a half-hearted attempt to avert the inavertable. Against better judgement, the parents decided not to tell either of their sons that Simon is dying, but you can't keep things like that from children. And besides, Adam has been with them for quite a while, now."

Inside the room, Andy, tongue between teeth, was dealing cards. Five for his older brother, five for himself and another five for the man sitting beside the bed. Adam, the Angel of Death.

"And I am supposed to help Andy deal with this terrible situation?" Monica asked without averting her eyes.

"Oh, right now, more than an angel he'd need a friend." Tess knew that all this had to be confusing for Monica, and yet it was necessary for her to understand. "But his own story hasn't even begun yet."

In the room, Andy had once again put down the cards all too fast, much to the annoyance of a slightly unnerved Simon. Andy didn't seem to care, though. He'd drawn up his feet, folded his arms on his knees and watched the others play, while a silent smile lit his eyes.

-------------------

Slowly, Monica got used to that strange feeling in the pit of her stomach when they shifted time. It had to be that, for as she opened her eyes again, she found herself at the park where they had watched the two brothers play. It was autumn; the trees seemed a little taller than last time and even the playground looked different, with more colours and less wood. The only thing that was left were the swings, and on one of them, a youth was sitting. He was all arms and legs, twelve, maybe, his long hair hiding his features as he toyed absent-mindedly with something in his hands.

"Andy's story begins right here." She heard Tess' rich voice at her ear. "Nearly six years have passed since the day Simon died. At first, soon after his brother's death, Andy tried to tell his parents that he knew Simon was fine, that Adam had told him so, that there was nothing to be afraid of in dying, but they didn't listen – a five year old talking of angels! But in his childish way, Andy had managed something his parent's won't for the rest of their lives: coping with Simon's death. And because they were clinging that much to their dead child, over the years, Simon turned into a myth, somebody all of Andy's achievements were measured to, a larger-than-life child his younger brother never stood a chance to live up to."

Tess paused, regretfully. "That's a terrible way of growing up for a child. And Andy, Andy is a really special child. But nobody noticed."

Now, Monica could make out what the boy was holding in his hands. It was a cigarette, and as he dragged on it, he did it with the absent-minded ease of practice.

"You see, aggression is a form of venting anger and frustration. But violence isn't always outgoing. In a search for a victim, Any came upon the one person on this earth he really hated, just as his parents had taught him, because the person was worthless and inadequate and living nonetheless. Himself."

Suddenly, the boy on the swing sat up straight, using the hand that still held the cigarette to put a strand of hair behind his ear, and it was a gesture Monica knew by heart, as she knew the eyes it revealed. And her mind reeled at what came next, for the boy opened his hand and brought the burning cigarette down on it. She smelled the nauseating stench of burned flesh, and the boy's eyes, Andrew's eyes, were huge and laughing and terrible.

tbc

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_Reviews will be rewarded with new chapters. Beta__s wanted. _

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	5. Voices, Voices and Echoes part two

T H E W A S T E L A N D

**Disclaimer**: not mine.

**Warning**: AU, for my very personal take on Andrew's background.

-------------------

CHAPTER Two: Voices, Voices and Echoes

Part two.

-------------------

This time, the change of scenery made Monica's stomach turn. Disoriented, she took in the coffee table and Tess' compassionate face, but her feelings continued to stumble over each other.

"But how... it is Andrew!" How could she have understood this so late? Images haunted her: the little boy's smile, those otherworldly eyes, the way in which the boy had rested his head in his arms. How could she not have noticed? "I don't understand – how can it be? Andrew is... was... human?!"

"Andrew lived a mortal life, yes."

Monica's gaze still held no trace of understanding. Tess sighed.

"Yes, Miss Wings, Andrew is an angel like you. But in a way, he's very different. And that is good so. You see, you were created to bring God's love and hope into this world; you're radiating peace and joy because you have never experienced anything else. Andrew, though, Andrew comes in times of fear and grief and anger. He connects with people because he has lived all that himself, and, ultimatly, died the death of a human being. That's his gift – you show them what they could be, in a better world, but he mirrors their life, and they recognize themsleves in him."

"But, the young Andrew, he is so..."

"Cruel? Maybe. But he has grown up being different, and people fear difference. They tried to keep him distant, for they didn't understand his being, and that'S something you mustn't do to a child. He is estranged to his feelings – cruelty or friendlyness don't meen anything to him right now."

Monica sat there, petrified. " I still don't understand. How can the boy Andrew was be my assignment? Am I supposed to get him back on God's path?"

Tess laughed, a fresh, melodic sound of utter amusement. "Oh, Angelgirl. Andrew has never needed to be taken back on the right path. He was chosen way before his birth and has been walking in God's grace all of his life. I'm just showing you who he is, and why. That's a distant past, and things have been seen to long before your time. But in the here and now, Andrew needs you, because he's sick and hurting and doubting. You and Andrew have been assigned to each other, Monica, not as a charge, but as friends and companions. And...", Tess turned her head towards the ceiling, listening for a moment as if she could hear something no one else could, and her brow creased with worry, "...and in this very moment, Andrew is in dire need for a friend."

--------------------

Completely out of breath, Monica reached the upstairs room and for a moment, panic rose inside her as she found the bed empty. Then she heard a strangled noise from the bathroom. The door was open, but Monica halted, not wanting to violate Andrew's privacy.

"Andrew?"

There was the noise again, and this time, Monica didn't hesistate. Andrew, white as a sheet, looked up at her from where he was sitting pinned between toilet and wash-basin. Exhaustedly, he closed his eyes.

For a moment, Monica didn't understand. She did have a body that seemed human, but the concept of illness was alien to her, as was everything it entailed. Why was he sitting on the cold tile floor, leaning against the bathroom wall? Was he so weak that he couldn't get up again?

Then the caughing started. Andrew leaned forward, over the toilet, and as the retching began, Monica understood.

"Oh, Andrew." Monica crouched beside him, not knowing what to do. Eventually, she put a gentle hand on his heaving back, rubbing it gently, trying to ease some of the tension she felt underneath her fingers.

The sat like taht for a long time, and it was bad, and there was nothing Monica could do about it. Eventually, Andrew sat back on his heels, resting his forehead on his arms.

"I told Tess to keep you away", he said bitterly, "I didn't want you to see me like that."

The words hit right home. But Monica swallowed down the hurt, trying to keep her voice nonchalantly.

"Well, seems that for once, Tess didn't succeed:" She put a hand on his shoulder, tugging gently. "Come on, Angelboy, let's clean you up a little."

He complied, leaned back against the bathroom wall and allowed her to clean his face with a damp cloth.

"I just don't understand." He said, after a while, "I tried, but it's so... senseless."

"Could be punishment for hubirs, though."

Andrew looked up, completely taken aback by the smile he saw on her face.

"Great. I'm ill,a nd you're mocking me." Utterly exhausted, he closed his eyes. "Do you think I'll ever make it back to the bed?"

--------------------

"May I ask you something?"

Monica sat beside the bed. Andrew was resting, his eyes closed, but he'd drunken some tea and didn't seem so deadly pale anymore.

"You just did, didn't you?" It was obvious Andrew would rather be left alone, but what Tess had shown her was so huge that she just had to ask him.

"I just wondered.... what is it like, living?"

"Tess did tell you."

Finally, Andrew's eyes opened. For a moment, Monica was afraid that she'd made a mistake, that he'd be angry at her question, but he just screwed up his nose, pointing his chin in the vague direction of the bathroom. "It's pretty much like that."

He caughed, a harsh, dry sound that mirrored his words. "There really isn't much to say about it. You've seen it all on your cases – good and bad."

That's when things started to get really bad.

tbc

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_Like it? Review it! _

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	6. Angels and Puppets part one

T H E W A S T E L A N D

**Disclaimer**: not mine.

**Warning**: Arthurian legends, sick angels and medical procedures ahead

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CHAPTER Three: Angels and Puppets

Part one.

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_Where are the days o__f Tobias_

_when one of the most radiant of you stood at the simple threshold,_

_disguised somewhat for the journey and already no longer awesome_

_(Like a youth, to the youth looking out curiously)._

_Let the Archangel now, the dangerous one, from behind the stars,_

_take a single step down and toward us: our own heart,_

_beating on high would beat us down. __What are you?_

_(The First Elegy)_

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Monica stood at the admittance desk, holding the forms that the nurse had given her in a dead grip. After the long, horrible journy, it seemed all so surreal to her. The hospital with its bright lights, the people moving busily around her, and she, standing in their midst, alone and lost.

The way to the hospital had been the longest Monica had ever driven; neither had she ever felt so desperate. Andrew had been barely conscious, and the sound of his ragged, terrible breaths still filled her ears. She'd wanted to talk to him, to comfort him, to say a prayer, but at that point, she'd been long beyond words. Now, they'd taken him from her, and as much as she'd welcomed the nurses and orderlies taking away the dead weight of Andrew leaning crushingly on her shoulder, she felt suddenly bereft.

"Hey, you! There's other sick people waiting!"

A woman looked her up and down, turning away disgustedly at the expression she read in her face. Monica, startled out of her reverie, took a few hesitant steps in the direction of the waiting room. Numbly, she sat down, sinking deeply into the green couch. Her head was swirling with thoughts, but she couldn't veen formulate a sensible question to ask one of the passing nurses, God, anyone. Right now, there was only one thing she knew: she wanted Andrew back, to lean into him, have him smile down at her, reassuring her that everything would be alright.

A gentle touch on her shoulder sent a shiver down her spine. She'd longed so desperatly for a touch, that for a marvellous moment she rally expected to find Andrew beside her. But standing above her was an elderly woman, small and haggard, but her face compassionate.

"Everything alright, sweetie?"

Monica felt a tear running down her cheek; startled at her own reaction, she found nothing to reply.

"I know it's hard. But, you see, it's really important that you fill out the form." The woman smiled encouragingly. "And it gives you something to cling to while you're waiting. My name is Stella, by the way."

Embarassed, Monica wiped her cheek. "I'm Monica. I... I guess I lost it. Sorry."

"Don't be." The woman sat down beside her. "Believe me,, I know what you're going through. But waiting together is better than waiting alone, isn't it?"

"Yes", this time, Monica managed half a smile. "Yes, it is."

The woman nodded encouragingly, rubbing her shoulder. "That's the way to go, girl. You're face is far to angelic for tears. And we can't let them see that their bureaucracy is bringing us down, now, can't we?"

On second thought, the woman wan't as old as Monica had first guessed – early sixties, maybe. She was wearing plain, simple clothing, and everything on her radiated motherly gentleness. But there was something sad in her eyes, a worry too fresh to be subdued by the smile on her face.

"Who are you waiting for?" Monica asked, glad to occupy her mind with other things.

"My husband. He's had a heart attack earlier this evening, but they say he's stable for now."

She took a ragged photo out of her wallet – it was a wedding picture, taken many, many years ago. In the picture, she looked young and happy and beautiful.

"That's Henry, my husband. He's almost bald now, but he's still posing like that for the camera."

She sighed with obviously fake impatience. "He's retired a few months ago. I guess he'll have to learn to take things easier, now. That was my story – want to share yours?"

"Huh?" Monica looked up from the photo, absorbed in the life of complete strangers.

"I saw you coming in with that young man... you make a nice couple."

"Oh, no. No, Andrew is my... brother." Which was true, in a certain sense. "I just don't know what's wrong with him. He's... he's never been sick in his entire life, and now... I just don't understand."

The woman laid a comforting arm around her shoulder. "Don't worry. It's not in your hands anymore, and worrying won't help neither him nor you. That's what I learned in theses past hours."

Just in that moment, a nurse called for the woman, and Monica remained alone once more. With a deep sigh, but with renewed courage, she took on the form.

-------------------

At first, Monica felt completely at a loss as she found herself standing on the shores of a beautiful little lake, complete with goldfish and ducks. Then she became aware of Tess standing beside her, and all of a sudden she recognized the feeling in the pit of her stomach. Vaguely, she remembered falling asleep in the hospital'S waiting room.

"Is this a dream?" she asked, marvelling at the brightness of the autumn colors. The details were so clear; she could even feel the gentle caress of the sun on her bare arms.

"It is for you. For Andy, it's reality."

She turned towards the boy laying on the carefully mown meadow, chewing lazily on a blade of grass. Now, Andrew's distinct features were clearly recognizable, even if there was still a trace of the boy lingering in his face. He was tall and lanky now, stuck in the midst of puberty.

Without opening his eyes, the boy smiled. "Hi there, Angel."

Monica couldn't believe her ears. "He can *see* you?! But that's... impossible."

They both were in their angel personae. It was absolutely unimaginable that any mortal could see – or hear – them. It had never happened before.

"*Impossible* is a harsh word, Miss Wings." Tess was looking down on the boy fondly, "You don't exist in his world, and he can't really *see* me. But he can feel us – he's been able to do so since his memory started; and he's been kept trained, for there have always been angels in his life. An inflationary lot, lately, I'm afraid. Oh, we never intervened; he was destined to walk his way alone, for he had to prove worthy and wasn't allowed to be Touched. But we were curious about the boy that was Chosen, and some of us couldn't refrain from sneaking a peaky, now and then. You can imagine how surprised we were at the development of... things. But I'm getting ahead."

"How's the angel stuff going, Tess?", the boy asked with still closed eyes. "Rescued some poor souls, lately?"

Tess shrugged, a little embarassed. "Yeah, well, yes. I talked to him, some day or other. That's not really interfering, is it?"

She turned back to Monica. "He's fifteen, now, and no longer living with his parents. Any has developed some *disturbing behaviourmental patterns* as the school's psychologist named it, and after having been thrown out of his old school, he's been sent here."

She went down on her knees beside the boy, drawing back the arms if the sweater he was wearing in spite of the warm day. It revealed some deep, half-healed gashes on his forearm, arranged in a strangely symmetrical pattern.

"Andrew started hurting himself as way of dealing with situations he couldn't master – the estrangement from his parents, the self-doubt, his anger on the world. Now, he lives in a community for difficult adolescents, but that wasn't exapctly a lucky decision. Sticking a masochist into a group of sadists sounds rather dumb to me."

Tess straightened. "At this point, I was convinced everything was lost. Andy may seem relaxed right now, but he's cynical, disillusioned and bitter. Adam is about to pay him another visist – and this time, it will be for business."

Suddenly, a flash of horrible images assaulted Monica. A spartanic bathroom, Andy on his knees in front of the bath tub. A jackknife. And blood everywhere, bright red blood in the water, on Andrews hands, on the tiles.

Monica felt tears running down her face. "Oh, Tess..."

Tess drew her near, and Monica buried her head against her shoulder, crying.

tbc

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	7. Angels and Puppets part two

T H E W A S T E L A N D

**Disclaimer**: not mine.

**Warning**: Arthurian legends, sick angels and medical procedures ahead.

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CHAPTER Three: Angels and Puppets

Part two.

-------------------

Monica woke to the sound of sirens, and it took her a moment to find her place in space and time. Sitting up, she brushed a left-over tear from her cheek; suddenly, she felt the irresistable urge to see Andrew.

Hesitantly, she walked over to the braod glass doors to the emergency room, where she stood for a moment, summoning all her courage. Then she walked through the glass doors as if she owned the place.

She'd done this a hundred times before – social worker, nurse, medical student: when they worked on a case, they weren't really in disguise; prople simply saw what they expected to see. They just blended in, vaguely being recognized as familiar faces, but not so much that anyone paid too much attention to them.

It worked as it had always worked, although Monica had a hard time fighting the urge to avert her eyes each time she crossed somebody on the corridor. Unchecked, she reached emergency four, where, according to the admittance board, A.D. was being treated. But standing in front of the door, her courage left her, and she had to force herself to look through the window.

The picture that unfolded in front of her eyes was one of pure efficacy and concentration. Obviously, something was about to happen, and all efforts were directed towards that goal. People were walking in and out busily, readying stuff, checking things. Andrew was there, hooked up to monitors and Ivs. An oxygen mask had been placed on his pace, and he looked slightly forlorn in the midst of all that buzz. He was laying flat on his back, which seemed to give him a very hard time breathing. One of the doctors – a tall, young man with short, dark hair – was intently talking to him, and although Andrew nodded a few times, he did'n seem able to concentrate on the words.

"Monica!" Monica turned to find a red-haired woman in scrubs standing in front of her. "Well, if that's not a surprise! You do remember me, don't you? I'm Jean, from hematology."

"Right." Monica remembered. She had been working on the case of that boy with hemophilia; if she remembered correctly, she had posed as a social worker that time. "Yes, sure. Hi Jean."

"Hi. I'm just filling in down here – unfortunatly, the flu doesn't even stop in front of nurses. So, here I am." She smiled. "What are you doing here in the ER?"

Following Monica's gaze, her eyes turned wide with understanding. "Oh. Andrew D'angelo – your husband?"

Brief pause. "My brother."

"Gee. But don't you wory, he's in good hands. As far as I understood, he's got a rather bad case of pneumonia. He's hurt one of his lungs by force of caughing, and Dr. Evans is going to put in a chest tube so it can expand again."

Monica stared through the window. They were, in fact, prepping Andrew for minor surgery. He seemed calm enough, but Monica didn't miss his brow creasing as the doctor began washing his side.

"Why don't you go in?" Jean asked. "I guess chest tubes are a pretty scary thing if you don't know what's happening, and I'm sure it's okay with Dr. Evans, if you ask him."

Long pause.

"No." Monica didn't even dare to look at Jean. "No, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Oh... okay. Well, I'll have to go back in. I'll tell him you're here, anyway."

With that, she left Monica standing there, watching Andrew jerk as the doctor made the incision. Then, Jean was besind him, stroking his sweat-soaked hair. Calmly, she talked him through the procedure, and, very slowly, he relaxed enough to allow her to hold his hand.

Embarassed as if caught spying on something very intimate, Monica turned away.

-------------------

Monica recognized the soft, golden glow long before she saw Tess standing at the window, looking out into the night. She was so happy to find her there that she could have cried. But then, just a step shy of crossing the door, she halted, frightened by a sudden thought. What was she going to tell Tess? She'd failed. Tess had trusted her to help Andrew through his ordeal, trusted her enough to leave them alone despite her obvious worry for Andrew. But she, she'd been taken away by a story she'd been told, by a past long gone, seeking refuge in the puzzle of his former life, while he'd needed her here. Somehow, she was at a loss what to do, how to deal with all too human angel of the presence. Mortality and illness were familiar to her, but they had always been others' problems. She was good at dealing with them because she herself had a different, elated view of things; but now that they affected her personally, she'd backed out. She'd failed Andrew and with him, Tess.

"Do you know the legend of the Fisher King, Miss Wings?" Tess asked silently, looking out into the night.

Confused, Monica took a daring step forward. "Why... yes. It's an Arthurian legend. On his quest for the Holy Grail, Perceval comes to Muntsalvache, where the Fisher King is waiting for the through heir to his throne. But Perceval proves unworthy and is banned from the castle, never to find the Grail again. Eventually, Galahad, Lancelot's son, who is pure in spirit and thought and chosen to be the keeper of the Holy Grail, wins the right to be crowned king."

Tess turned, sighing. "You know the words, but you never saw beyond them, didn't you? Come, sit, Angelgirl. I'm going to tell you the story once again, and maybe you'll understand."

She waved Monica near, waiting until she was seated.

"You must know that Perceval never searched for the Holy Grail in the first place – which is the only way of finding it, as you may know. Having fulfilled his original purpose of becoming a knight of the round table, Perceval is on his way home to visit his mother, when he comes upon a river. There, he finds two men in a boat, one of whom is fishing. The fisherman tells him that the river is impassable for miles and offers Perceval refuge for the night. Perceval finds the castle indicated, which is splendid, although the land surrounding it is laid waste, the soil infertile, the crops on the field rotting.

"At the castle, he's graciously received by the lord himself, who is crippled and lies on a couch in front of a blazing fire. Perceval wonders about the man's wounds, but remembers his teacher's advice and dosen't ask. A rich feast is held, and as the meal ends, a procession of youths enters the hall. The first youth bears a lance with a single drop of blood on his tip, which runs onto the youth's hands. Then, two more youths enter the hall, carrying golden candelabra. The are followed by a beautiful maiden who holds a golden cup in her hands, decoreted with precious gems. After her comes another maiden, carrying a silver platter. The procession crosses the hall and vanishes again without a word being spoken. Again, Perceval longs to learn the meaning of all this, but refrains from asking. The next morning, though, the castle has disappeared.

"Perceval returns to Camelot, where he, now a worthy knight while once he was but a fool, recieves a hero's welcome. But during the feast in his honor, a loathy damsel, hunchbacked and crooked, enters the hall and reprimands him for loosing the Wholy Grail, which he'd held in his hands. All he would have had to do was ask one simple question, to heal the Fisher King and with him his land."

Tess looked at Monica again.

"You see, Angelgirl, Perceval was, in fact, chosen to be the rightful heir to the Holy Grail. And he didn't loose it because he wasn't a noble enough knight, but because he omitted to ask one single question. And if you wonder why I'm telling you all this..."

Tess sighed. "I've told you the story of a human boy. A very special boy, but human nonetheless, with doubts and faults and dark sides. A boy that has neither been raised in Christian spirit nor searched for it knowingly, but ultimatly, against all odds, has been found, winning everything. For he owned the one quality Perceval lacked when he was put to the test: compassion."

"But..."

Tess raised a single finger, stopping her. "Don't worry about Andrew, Angelgirl, he is going to be fine. Maybe he'll learn a few lessons, himself, but this is not about him. Think about it."

With that, she was gone, leaving a very confused Monica.

-------------------

While Monica was sitting there, trying to make sense of all that Tess had just told her, the woman that had been with her earlier, Stella, came back into the waiting room. She seemed strangely subdued, and her gait was slow and hesitant as she came to sit beside Monica. She had a briefcase in her hands, holding it so tightly her knuckles turned white, and her eyes seemed hollow and empty.

"Has something happened to your husband?" Monica asked concernedly, her mind momentarily taken off her own worries.

Stella looked at her in complete confusion, as if she'd noticed her only now. "I... I don't know. The doctors said he's fine, but he... acts so strangely. I... Monica, I'm so scared."

"Would you like to tell me about it?"

Stella hesistated. "It sounds so... ridiculous."

Monica leaned forward to put an encouraging hand on Stella's shoulder. "It can't be ridiculous if it scares you that much."

"Well... okay. I went to see Henry, before, and he seemed okay. He was sitting up in bed, lookiing all determined." She looked at Monica, smiling hesitantly. "You know, man on a mission. Anyway, he told me he had to order a few things and that I had to get him his briefcase. He gave me instructions about where I'd find everything and then..."

Stella closed her eyes.

"...then he told me where to find his last will and what it contained. I was taken aback, but he said it was alright, that it had to be done. And then he told me he had seen Death."

"Death?" Monica asked, surprised.

"I know this sounds strange, but that was what he said. He said he'd been taken to do an eca...eco... some examination of his heart, and as he was waiting for it, he saw a young man. He was on a gurney and he seemed ill, but as they wheeled him by, he looked at Henry as if he recognized him, and there was something in his eyes that really upset Henry. Like sadness and joy at the same time. Henry thinks he's seen his death in the eyes of that stranger."

Stella turned to Monica. "Do you think something like that is possible?"

Monica averted her eyes. So Henry was going to die; Andrew made no mistakes. Her heart was heavy as she replied. "I think that people can sense that they are dying, yes."

Stellas eyes filled with tears. "But I don't know how to react to that. What shall I do now?"

For you shan't know neither day nor hour.

"It's very simple, Stella. Be with him."

And while speaking the words, Monica understood.

tbc

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	8. And the night, the night

T H E W A S T E L A N D

**Disclaimer**: not mine.

**Warning**: AU, for my very personal take on Andrew's background.

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CHAPTER Four: And the night, the night

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_Who art thou?_

_Primordial perfection!_

_First darlings of creation: _

_Mountain summits crimson_

_In the dawn of genesis –_

_...essence of light..._

_Shields shaped of ecstasy,_

_Swirling storms of rapture – _

_All suddenly ceasing..._

_Mirrors!... commanding all_

_The scattered sweetness_

_Into themselves again. _

_(The Second Elegy)_

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Andrew was alone in the observation room, still attached to a monitor, and with that dreadful tube coming out of his left side, but finally asleep. Silently, Monica drew a chair close to the bed and sat. The deep lines on her friend's brow had eased, and in his sleep, his face looked very young. Careful as not to disturb him, she took his hand. He stirred at her touch, opening his eyes.

"Hi", he said softly, voice heavy with sleep.

"Hi yourself." She replied, mustering her bravest smile. "How are you doing?"

"Fine." He followed her gaze down to the tube. "Looks bad, hu?"

"Yes, it does."

"Funny, it doesn't feel nearly as bad as it looks." His eyes began to close again. "Stay?"

"Yes." Monica leaned forward, brushing a strand of hair out of his brow. "Oh, Andrew, I saw terrible things today. I saw how you died."

It took him a little to understand, but then he sighed. "Yeah, I guess that wasn't a pretty sight. But accidents like that do happen, you know?"

"Accident?!" Monica didn't believe her ears. "But you... you killed yourself!"

Andrew shook his head lazily, yawning again. "I did a lot of stupid things in my life. Killing myself wasn't among them." His words came slowly and a little slurred, as if he had trouble staying awake long enough to finish the sentence.

Monica smiled down at him. "Sleep, Angelboy. I'll be here."

-------------------

Tess, still in her angel persona, brushed her hand at Monica's shoulder, gently nudging her awake. Monica looked up at her drowsy with sleep, but utterly relaxed and happy.

Tess smiled down at her. Finally, she'd understood. "Now, isn't that better, child?"

She laid a hand on Monica's shoulder, squeezing gently. "See, Angelgirl, some things are much simpler than they may seem. And to start healing, it often takes just a little thing. Andrew has learned that a long time ago."

Monica nodded with understanding. "He didn't die that day."

"No, he didn't. But that day changed everything. You have seen what you had to see; for the rest, all you need to know that Andy was taken in by a kind soul and finally got what he yearned for his entire life: acceptance and love. Thus, he eventually turned into what he was meant to be – and into the Andrew we both love."

Monica turned towards the bed, and Tess could tell the moment she recognized her hand that had been holding Andrew's was as empty as the bed before her.

Tess tightened her grip on Monica's shoulder. "Be stilly, baby. Be still, for the Angel of Death is grazing this house."

-------------------

In another part of the hospital, a room was slowly emptying. Nurses and doctors left, defeated. One last nurse cleared away the remaining syringes and turned to leave, too. But then she hesitated, reaching out a shy hand to touch the distraught woman standing beside the bad. Then, she, too, left.

Unseen by them all, hands folded, the Angel of Death stood watch.

-------------------

"But, Tess, I should be with her", Monica tried to break free of Tess' dead grip that kept her from reaching Stella, who was was standing beside the bed, unmoving and in shock. "They can't do that – just leave her alone like that! They've got to do something, anything..."

"Everything has been said, and everything has been done." Tess' hand on her shoulder became heavier, but the touch was strangely comforting. "It is good."

Monica halted in her struggle, suddenly transfixed as she beheld the Angel of Death standing at the head of the bed, completely still. And he stood tall, and mighty, and untouched by the human world, and he waited.

A long time he stood like this, a power unfamiliar to this place filling the room. And it took a long time before Monica recognized it.

And then, the Angel of Death stepped forward.

tbc

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	9. Epilogue

T H E W A S T E L A N D

**Disclaimer**: not mine.

**Warning**: AU, for my very personal take on Andrew's background.

_....let there be healing! _

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EPILOGUE

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_But the boy must go on. In silence, the ancient sorr__ow brings him to the ravine,_

_Wh__ere a whiteness gleams in the moonlight: the source of joy. _

_Reverently, she gives him his name. In the human world, she says,_

_It is a stream that carries you. _

_They stand at the mountain's foot,_

_And she embraces him, weeping._

_(The Tenth Elegy)_

-------------------

An eternity later, back at the motel, Monica was lying in bed, snuggled into Andrew, who was very silent. Thinking about it, she began to grasp a certain logic behind Andrew's sudden recovery, but it had taken quiet a bit of rhetoric proficiency to, well, adapt the truth to the limited predilection of mirakles found in contemporary hospitals. In the end, Andrew had just signed out Against Medical Advice, and they'd left it at that. Even if she didn't understand completely what had happened, she was happy to take a tired, but utterly healed Angel of Death back home. That didn't change the fact that she still felt guilty about what had happend to him.

"What's up, Angelgirl?" Andrew's voice was soft in the darkness. "Come on, I know you're brooding about something."

Monica sighed. Apologizing would be a start.

"Andrew, I'm sorry for what happened to you. I... I know that it was to teach me a lesson, and I am so terribly sorry that you had to suffer on my account."

"Hold on." There was a strange glimmer in Andrew's eyes. "Let me get this straight. You're apologizing for me being ill?"

"Yes. I know now all that was about me, and I was so terribly thick. Maybe if I'd understood earlier..."

His chest beneath her face was moving, and for a terrible moment, she thought he was going to be sick again. Then, she realized that he was laughing.

"Oh, Angelgirl, walking on this earth wouldn't be half as interesting if it weren't for you."

He drew her into an embrace. "Who's the one suffering from hubris now, Miss Wings? This story might have taught you something, but rest assured that my pneumonia was of purely earthly origins. See, your body was created for the use of an Angel – mine was, is and remains human. If someone hits me, I bleed, just as I'll continue to pick of all kinds of bugs. It happens, now and then, and usually, I just hole up somewhere, pitying myself, and Tess comes around to cook chicken soup. And do you want to know a funny thing? Dying didn't even cure me from heyfever. God does have a sense of humor, I guess."

Monica smiled at the thought of Tess fussing about a defensless Andrew, but the uneasy feeling remained. She could feel him beside her, smell him, and yet, the picture of a human Andrew, different, but still Andrew, slicing at his wrists with such self-loathing and desperation, refused to leave her mind.

"I'm still thinking that Tess used some pretty heavy methods to get the message across", Andrew remarked, brushing a tear from her cheek. "Even if she was right on one thing: that you have a right to know everything. I am very sorry that it had to be this way. I can't change what you have seen, but there is one thing I can do."

-------------------

Utterly surprised, Monica felt the now familiar shift once more. As she opened her eyes, she found herself in a churchyeard. Andrew was standing in front of her, donning a black tuxeda complete with high-collared shirt, and as she looked down, she noticed she was wearing a light summer dress. Andrew bowed courteosly,a nd she took the offered hand. The church was modernly built and beautiful with its splendid white walls and the huge, curved wooden roof that gave it the impression of an abstract ship. The windows were made of colored glass, and there was fountain in front of it. In the parking lot, there stood rows and rows of cars.

"Are we going to service?"

"Something like that", Andrew replied. "Did Tess tell you what I did for a living before I... changed business?"

"You were a... carpenter." Monica remembered the form she'd filled out at the hospital. She'd not known were the answers came from, but she a had somehow been able to fill out every detail.

"Right."

Andrew pointed up to the church roof. "I helped building it. It is in here I found a home after the realeased me from hospital. A friend of the hospital's social worker took me into his family, saying he'd five girls aged five to fourteen and was craving male company. Imagine, I had grown up as an only child and all of a sudden, I had five little sisters."

"... and every single one of them fell utterly in love with their new brother before he'D even finished unpacking his things." Monica completed, having a pretty good picture of the scene in mind.

Slightly embarassed, Andrew rubbed his nose. "Yeah, well, kind of. The point is, a lot of good things happened to me, and they're worth being remembered, too. But come on, I'll show you something."

He led her through the high, beautifully carved portal, and Monica gasped at what she saw. The church was marvellous. The ample altar room was flooded with light, a simple granite altar with white candle and an onyx cross behind it being the only furniture. Behind the altar, an orchestra was set to play, with a choir behind it. Just as they entered, the orchestra began t play, and the sound sent shivers down her spine.

"See the first cellist?" Andrew whispered into her ear. "That's Becca, my favourite little sister. She plays for the Boston Philarmony, but sometimes, she takes a few colleagues for a holiday trip to Mississippi and the give the local school orchestra a little brush up. She's been a force of nature ever since she was five years old,a nd she loves life with a vengeance that's contagious. Imagine, she named her daughter after the piece of music she was playing when the contractions started."

Andrew smiled at his own memories. Then, he led her further along the corridor between the rows of benches, pointing at a group of people sitting among the others. "They've all come to hear her play. Jakob, the man who took me in, has died more than ten years ago, but Aunt Phyllis has a big enough family to keep her busy. Ruth, her eldest daughter, lives with her, and each morning, some assorted grandchildren are dumped on her porch."

Andrew pointed out a woman with short, red hair. "Ruth is an English teacher – she's done elementary homework five times over, so the choice came pretty naturally to her. Her marriage has long since ceased to exist but on paper. Then there is Esther. She's the third child, always stuck in the middle, and quite tough – Mississippis most feared state attorney, even if she's a soul of a girl in private. She'll have to be, for there's a cancer node in her breast, even if she doesn't know yet. But she's brave and she's got family, and whatever happens, she won't be alone. Neither will be Miriam, who bears her first child. And there comes Noa, always late. She's struggling the hardest; she's a pretty good writer , but nobody wants to print her books, so she changes jobs as frequently as boyfriends. Not really surprisingly, for even if she hasn't noticed yet, she's in a pretty stable relationship with her female flatmate. They're all different, everyone with their own problems, smaller and bigger. But each month, they get together, complete with boyfriends, husbands, children and dogs and have a family barbecue. And they will be fine."

He looked at Monica, smiling. "You wanted to know how life was. Well, life is like that. It's laughing and crying, barbecues on summer evenings and math exams, it's despair and friendship, it's spring rain and birthday cakes, cats and embraces and sometimes…"

As if on cue, the choir began to sing, and Monica recognized the solemn notes of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, that filled the room with grace and beauty, reverberating in her stomach and filling her heart with joy.

"… sometimes it is better not to try and explain things. In some rare and precious moments, life can be like this, too."

A little girl with long, black curls and incredibly dark eyes full of life came running towards them, arms reaching out. Andrew scooped her up into his arms, flew her high, and she squealed with delight. And in the same instant, Monica knew her name: Joy.

The end.

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_The poetry in this story is from Rainer Maria Rilke's Duino Elegies, which are among the most beautiful pieces of literature I know. Rilke has some pretty depressing views on life, but, boy, can the guy write! Me, I'm just stumbling along, and, as you guessed, I'm only playing in the fields of English grammar. Thanks to everybody who came along for the ride, anyway! _

_Liked it? Hated it? Review! _

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